this season's heavy, i know; i know
backbones breaking beneath the strain.
thinks you, 'save that amendful tone'
from happy composure thy do refrain.
these portions with daggers--they lacerate
clawing, digging; pulling delicate parts
of your soul. there looks no end in sight.
then bottom-rocks you hit and clouds part
nat far, nor wide -- a narrow space
forth light illuming thy darkest corner
gazing through is Love's true face,
and sudden the storm turns far calmer
He is the One Constant on whom to depend.
this season is long, but will come to an end.